The living were easy enough to dispose of, but the widows and daughters of the butchered gentry required a different kind of calculation.
Zhang Xin had no intention of letting them go to waste. They were assets, spoils of war to be bartered for loyalty. He decreed that these women would be married off to his most meritorious soldiers—specifically the battle-hardened veterans of the Three Thousand Camp and the Five Military Camp. These men had abandoned their ancestral homes, marching thousands of miles through blood and mud to follow his banner into Qingzhou. They had earned the flesh of their enemies' kin.
In Zhang Xin's eyes, a stolen noblewoman was the ultimate anchor. Giving a soldier a high-born wife and a confiscated estate transformed him from a mercenary into a stakeholder. It stabilized morale, rooted their loyalty in the very soil of Qingzhou, and gave them something violently precious to defend. With a fresh war looming on the horizon, this blood-stained bounty gave the men a desperate, feral hunger for the coming slaughter. They would fight like demons to protect their new domestic spoils.
He ordered a grand muster of every unmarried soldier in Qingzhou. In a meticulously orchestrated parade of flesh, the men were permitted to step forward and select their prize, ordered strictly by rank, battlefield merit, and age.
Before the final echoes of the women's weeping could fade from the camps, the second year of the Chuping era bled into the past.
Amidst the sulfurous reek and deafening roar of firecrackers—meant to scare away ancient demons, though the true monster already sat in the governor's chair—the third year of the Chuping era arrived.
On the first day of the Lunar New Year, Zhang Xin took his seat in the grand, echoing expanse of the State Prefecture Hall. His remaining subordinates filed in to offer their seasonal greetings, their faces pale under the flickering torchlight as Zhang Xin distributed heavy red envelopes and year-end bonuses.
Compared to the bustling, sycophantic crowds of the previous New Year, the hall felt hollowed out, almost derelict. Far fewer officials came to pay their respects this year.
There was no helping it. Most of the local bureaucracy was missing because their households were covered in funeral shrouds. The families of the powerful clans were still counting their dead.
Zhang Xin, entirely unbothered by the empty seats, methodically stacked the unclaimed red envelopes to the side, reserving them for the officials who were currently too traumatized or bereaved to attend. They would receive them upon their return to duty.
It was a silent, chilling message wrapped in festive crimson paper: One thing at a time. The slaughter is done, and let bygones be bygones. As long as you perform your duties like obedient dogs, I will give you everything you are entitled to. Rebel, and your envelope remains empty.
While it could not heal the deep, festering terror left by his mass purge of the gentry, the gesture threw a bone to the surviving bureaucrats. It gave them a fragile, desperate sense of security.
Once the grim formalities of the New Year visits concluded, the official holiday began. As Hua Xin, Guo Yuan, Sun Qian, and the other top ministers departed for their respective ancestral lands to sweep the graves of their forebears, the State Prefecture turned deathly silent, resembling a sprawling mausoleum.
On the second day of the Lunar New Year, Zhang Xin did not rest. Accompanied by Zhang Ning and the hollow-eyed puppet Emperor, Zhang Huan, he embarked on a calculated tour of the military wards. They visited the families of the fallen and the heavily maimed, bearing hollow gifts of grain and silk.
To Zhang Xin, the families of martyrs were a vital cog in his war machine; they had to be kept fed so the living soldiers would march into the meat grinder without looking back. A soldier who knew his family would eat well after his throat was cut was a soldier who fought with terrifying, reckless abandon.
By the tenth day of the first lunar month, the internal tallies were complete. The aristocratic women had finally been fully distributed, their heritages and identities erased as they were absorbed into the lower ranks of the army.
To celebrate, Zhang Xin authorized a mass wedding within the fortified encampments. He granted the newly wedded soldiers staggered leaves of absence, giving them just enough time to indulge in vice, drink, and play mahjong. The camps shook with drunken revelry, the morale of the rank-and-file soaring to dangerous new heights.
Then came the sixteenth day of the first lunar month.
The Lantern Festival had barely concluded when Zhang Xin summoned the iron-clad killers of the Xuanjia Army. It was time for an inspection tour of the provinces.
This winter circuit served two distinct, dark purposes. First, he needed to inspect the local counties to ensure the surviving populace was prepared for the spring plowing; any disruption in food production would jeopardize his upcoming campaign. If any local magistrate showed signs of incompetence or sluggishness, they would be corrected—permanently.
Second, the tour was a bloody reminder of who owned Qingzhou.
Zhang Xin had been away on a brutal campaign for over a year, and upon his return, he had unleashed a wave of executions that left the rivers running red. He needed to show his face in the countryside, to let the surviving elite look into his eyes and feel the crushing weight of his absolute authority.
Why had the powerful clans dared to rise up in his absence? Because they had forgotten the terror of his blade. He was going to ensure they never forgot again.
Breaking with imperial tradition, Zhang Xin bypassed the opulent, heavily gilded governor's carriage given to him by the late Emperor Liu Hong. It sat in a dark corner of the state warehouse, literal mold eating away at its silk curtains.
He had no time for slow, ceremonial pageantry. The shadow of war was creeping closer; he intended to launch a devastating assault against Yuan Shao and Han Fu by April or May at the absolute latest. The imperial carriage was a snail's pace luxury he could not afford. He needed to inspect the state, audit the army's combat readiness, and enforce his will at a gallop.
Besides, riding at the head of a column of black-armored shock cavalry sent a far more effective message to the peasantry than any golden carriage ever could.
"You are leaving on another long trek," Zhang Ning murmured inside the dim, cold privacy of their bedchamber. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled the heavy, cold iron plates of his armor over his shoulders, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "Brother, you have been at war for more than a year. Since you returned, you have done nothing but bleed this province, stopping only for those few days you feigned illness. You didn't even rest for the New Year."
She looked up, staring into his cold eyes. "And now, in this biting wind and blinding snow, you insist on riding thousands of miles across the prefectures. How can flesh and blood withstand this constant strain?"
"We have Doctor Hua," Zhang Xin replied, his voice flat, devoid of warmth as he patted the solid iron plate over his breast. "We are young enough to endure the cold. Do not waste your worry."
He leaned in close, his lips curling into a sharp, ruthless smile. "If the day comes where my body can truly no longer hold on... it will only be because the empire has already been broken and remade beneath my heel."
Zhang Ning let out a quiet, defeated sigh. She knew better than to argue with a tyrant. She fell silent, her focus narrowing to the tight, precise lacing of his armor plates.
Zhang Xin looked down at her bent head, her pale skin contrasting sharply with the dark iron.
He reached out, his gauntleted hand catching her jaw, pulling her up into a sudden, bruising kiss.
"What are you—? Ouch!" Zhang Ning gasped, startled as the cold metal of his gauntlet nipped at her skin, a sudden flush rising to her cheeks.
"I am leaving," Zhang Xin said, his hand dropping lower, his heavy palm resting over her flat abdomen with a possessive, lingering weight. "Keep yourself safe within these walls. Do not strain yourself, but do not grow stagnant either. Keep moving."
"I know," Zhang Ning whispered, tying off the final leather bandages of his greaves. "Go."
Zhang Xin held her against his armored chest for a moment longer, drawing in her warmth before turning his back on the room and stepping out into the freezing gray light.
Outside the gates of the State Prefecture, the two thousand five hundred killers of the Xuanjia Army sat motionless on their mounts, their black armor dusted with falling snow, looking like a legion of statues sculpted from coal.
Zhang Xin swung himself into the saddle of his warhorse.
"Move out!"
Hua Xin, flanked by a shivering line of pale provincial officials, stood by the massive city gates to see them off. Hua Xin's own ancestral home in Gaotang lay only a short distance south of Pingyuan, and he had already made his grim pilgrimage there and back.
"May the Governor's journey be swift... may your health endure the frost..." Hua Xin droned, his voice carrying the practiced, hollow sycophancy of a survivor.
Cutting through the empty formalities, Zhang Xin looked down from his mount. "While I am away, the absolute governance of the State Prefecture falls entirely to you, Vice Prefect. Do not disappoint me."
"This servant lives only to execute your will," Hua Xin replied, bowing so low his forehead nearly brushed the slush on the ground.
"Drive!"
With a thunderous crack of hooves, the twenty-five hundred black-clad riders surged out of the city gates, a dark, unstoppable wave cutting through the pristine white snow.
Because time was a luxury he was rapidly burning through, Zhang Xin could not afford to dally in every backwater county. His route was calculated to strike only the administrative beating hearts of each prefecture and state, forcing the local governors and prime ministers to give an accounting of their loyalty face-to-face.
He bypassed the Pingyuan Commandery entirely. The six prefectures of Qingzhou were his to bleed, but Pingyuan was his home den; he already knew exactly how many throats had been cut there and how much grain was locked in its vaults.
Instead, he set his sights on the state of Jinan, the closest territory to Pingyuan, choosing it as the first grim stop on his circuit. The column headed due south, tracking through the frozen wilderness straight toward the walls of Dongpingling.
The administration of Jinan had received word of the Reaper's approach days prior. Their officials were already lined up outside the frozen city gates, shivering in the biting wind, waiting to offer their submission.
As Zhang Xin's iron column ground to a halt before them, the Chancellor of Jinan hurried forward, his robes dragging in the mud.
"The Governor braves the fiercest frost and snow, riding into the teeth of winter solely for the sake of the souls of Qingzhou," the Chancellor cried out, forcing a desperate, trembling smile onto his face as he bowed. "Qingzhou is truly blessed to be ruled by such a terrifying... such a magnificent Governor."
Zhang Xin looked down from his horse, his lips twisting into a practiced, deceptive smirk as he returned the empty flattery with smooth, terrifying ease.
After a few brief, tense exchanges, Zhang Xin demanded an audience with Liu Kang, the King of Jinan.
When the powerful clans of Qingzhou had risen up in open rebellion, Jinan had remained dead silent. Not a single local lord had raised a banner against Zhang Xin. Liu Kang had played a massive role in maintaining that terrifying silence, ruthlessly suppressing any whispers of treason before they could catch fire. He might have been a puppet of the Han line, but when the blades were drawn, he knew exactly which master held the leash.
Because Jinan had proactively submitted to save itself from the butcher's block, Zhang Xin had spared its local clans during his great purge. This visit wasn't an execution; it was a reward. He had come to look upon his obedient vassal.
The Chancellor of Jinan practically wept with relief, instantly granting the request and ordering the imperial attendants to escort the Governor into the palace.
Though the true Emperor was currently a captive of tyrants in the west, completely incapable of projecting power into the east, the hollow, ancient etiquettes of the Han still had to be observed.
Flanked by his elite guard, Zhang Xin stepped back into the familiar, oppressive luxury of the royal palace.
The eunuchs had barely finished announcing his arrival before Liu Kang emerged from behind the heavy silk partitions, his face tight with a mixture of relief and lingering dread.
"Your humble servant greets Your Majesty," Zhang Xin said, his voice dripping with a mock humility that sent a shiver through the room. He stepped forward, discarding protocol to grab Liu Kang by the arm, dragging his second brother into a dark corner of the hall to whisper his dark gratitude.
He stayed in Dongpingling for two days, his eyes watching everything, his scribes auditing the grain stores and the weapon caches. Once he was thoroughly satisfied that Jinan was broken to the bit and prepared for the spring plowing, Zhang Xin wheeled his black horse around.
The column turned east, riding through the howling blizzard toward Lean County, leaving a trail of black, trampled slush in their wake.